


I Care

by not_my_circus



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Made up Monster, THERES ART FOR THIS, i'll tag just in case, idk theres not a lot to tag, it's better than the fic but i had fun, kinda body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_my_circus/pseuds/not_my_circus
Summary: Geralt finds anger a lot easier to handle. And it tends to backfire on Jaskier.A place called the "village of traps" is not a great setting for fights or realizations and Geralt's got a face both
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	I Care

**Author's Note:**

> I'm proud of this even though it needs work. The Mod has actually been very kind and allowed me to have this betaed after posting it so grammar mistakes etc should get fixed!
> 
> I'm even more proud about partnering with hobbart-art for the Geraskier Reverse Bang. They've got a whole bucket of talent and a whole lot of patience. Here's their incredible piece that I got to work off of: https://hobbart-art.tumblr.com/post/642967580517318656/its-finally-time-to-post-my-art-for-the  
> I had a great time working on this, even if I may not have the tip top piece I wanted, it was more than worth it.

It had been a while since Geralt had been to Kerack. Not for any reason, just no contracts. But borders didn’t really matter, Witchers had jobs and that’s all that mattered. Courts and borders and royals mattered to other people. Like soldiers and nobility and merchants. Not to Witchers.

“Geralt!”

And apparently not really to wandering bards either.

“Geralt, I understand – and am far used to - your whole strong and silent, handsome thing,” Jaskier spun around from where he was strolling ahead of Geralt and Roach, lute falling silent even as he continued making his way with irritating grace. Geralt frowned harder. The bard continued, “but you do normally at least _acknowledge_ my basic questions like ‘is it going to rain’ or, more relevantly in this case, ‘where are we currently headed’.”

“It’s not on me if you didn’t listen to me before, Bard.” Jaskier smoothly navigated around a dip worn in the road. Geralt resolutely didn’t look away, he wasn’t affected by elegant movement or the way the late afternoon sun bathed the bard in warm light.

The bard bemused grin turned indulgent and he raised an eyebrow, “Well, Geralt darling, ‘places, Bard, why does it matter? Go find a countess or whatever’ doesn’t really tell me much. Though I suppose that could be town name in theory.” Jaskier blinked. “Is that a town name? I have been taking it rather personally the whole time, I _did_ tell you that things had ended quite permanently with Countess de Stael. _Is_ that the name of a village?”

“It…it is not.”

“Oh! So, I _should_ take it personally!” His grin remained bright and slightly smug but Geralt watched his shoulders slump a minute amount, noticed how he stumbled the slightest bit. Fuck.

The other man probably _had_ told him about things ending with the Countess and Geralt had either forgotten or not listened. Shifting his weight in the saddle, he tried to think back. They had joined back up recently, just over a week ago. When had-oh. Rin- by the creek. He vaguely remembered Jaskier stumbling – quite literally stumbling, he _could_ remember the flask – and flipping between ranting and softening down with concern. It was a haze though, exhaustion and the djinn and the overwhelming panic, and what either of them actually said was lost to Geralt. He hadn’t meant it personally, but it was almost worse. He didn’t sigh but he would have. “Vesnice Pastí. We’re going to Vesnice Pastí. Not far, I can hear the people. And we’re in Kerack.”

Jaskier stumbled again, this time to a stop, and he blinked at Geralt open mouthed. Geralt slowed but didn’t stop. It was better to let Jaskier be dramatic sometimes. Better a little bit more often than a lot more rarely. Plus, Jaskier’s comically wide expression helped tug him away from darker thoughts than normal. He nearly almost-grinned.

“Geralt. There’s- we’re…ok, two things here.” Jaskier started talking again as Geralt passed by him. The strumming returned too. More energetic than is had been before. After a second, Geralt heard Jaskier hurry a few steps forward and fell in step besides Roach. Geralt glanced down to make eye contact, knowing Jaskier would be looking up waiting to get a sign to continue. The Witcher nodded. “First, Kerack! We should go to the coast! Second, more importantly, Vesnice Pastí? The town is called _Vesnice Pastí_?”

“Yes? It’s in some localized Kerackan dia-”

“Kerackan dialect, yes, yes, I know.” The sounds of Vesnice Pastí grew louder which was why he hopped off Roach. Being able to pay more attention to the bard was only an unfortunate side effect. Jaskier stepped to the side to give him space and paused for a moment, waiting for Geralt to settle into step. “I don’t really get chances to speak it anymore but I-”

“Wait, _this_ is one of the languages you speak?”

“-I am still – yes Geralt, I speak a language spoken in Kerack. That tends to happen when you grew up in a place. The point is-”

“You grew up in Kerack?”

“-is that – again, yes Geralt, but still not the point. The _point_ ,” rushed forward a few steps and turned around again, steps sure and grin amused as if he thought Geralt was teasing him. The Witcher realized it was more information he probably had been told before. “-the point is, the town is named fucking _Vesnice Pastí_? That means ‘village of traps’. Village of traps. That’s- they- village of traps?”

Huh. Village of traps. There was probably a story there. The kind of thing some people found interesting. Geralt never noticed those kinds of things, it was preposterous to think he did. Curiosity served no functional purpose and – as Jaskier often proved – could be at odds with basic survival skills if say, it was directed at unseen sounds in the forest. Witchers had no need for curiosity. Bards thrived on it.

“Probably just some old local tale. Some made up person’s hunting grounds or something.” A Witcher had no use knowing local stories unrelated to contracts, so Geralt didn’t care one way or the other about it. But a story could mean a song and even Geralt could – begrudgingly – admit that his coin purse was much fuller when Jaskier travelled with him.

Jaskier impossibly, brightened even more at the encouragement. “Yes! Oh, the alderman may share it. Or tavern goers.” The other man fell silent, thinking over something or another. Seemingly without Jaskier’s awareness, the aimless strumming shifted into an actual melody and Geralt was disappointed to realize he could identify it as the song Jaskier had recently started working on. The moment of near silence didn’t last long. “Have you been here before?”

“No. Not in Kerack a lot.”

“Huh.” Jaskier waltzed around, attention focused more on his thoughts than on the road. “I do suppose it’s been a few years since I’ve been here myself.” His tone was light, but his scent turned just the slightest bit bitter. Or the slightest bit _more_ bitter. There’d been a bitter note for a few weeks now. Geralt tried to write it off as a result off…of the events, but he was fairly sure he was just ignoring something more. Not that it should matter. The Bard’s feelings were his own to deal with. “It’s not like I’m going to wander in for a visit without you leading us here.”

Geralt didn’t glance over at Jaskier in surprise but only barely. He didn’t know why it mattered that Jaskier hadn’t gone back to Kerack at all, why it mattered that Jaskier _wouldn’t_ go on his own. But it felt like something that had weight behind it. He didn’t care. He felt like he should ask about it. “Hm?”

“Clearly, Geralt, you don’t take me to enough places. It’s very rude of you. Perhaps you should work on that.”

“If you wanna sleep in the forest more often, just say so.” Jaskier was irritatingly hard to read. In the exact opposite way then the way Geralt was. But snarky banter he definitely could do. “Great way to get to a lot of places.”

A mocking glare and a switch up in beat or some musically shift. “I honestly didn’t know we were even _in_ Kerack until you mentioned it.”

“Still going to places.”

“Names matter you scoundrel! Vesnice Pastí for instance! Could be a perfectly lovely place with a fun little story behind its name!”

“Sounds like there’s on ‘or’ there. If I ask, will it shorten your rambling?”

“Nope!” Another high-energy chord and the mindless strumming picked up into an improvised, one-time only song. “The other option is Melitele’s letting some pretentious, first year Oxenfurt student write our life and it’s foreshadowing!”

There…wasn’t really a response to that. Not that Geralt could think of. “Hm.”

A mock offended huff and Jaskier fitted a meaning into Geralt’s response. “How dare you! No, I do not know that from being such a student myself! Merely from peers at the time. And students now. Very rude of you to assume.”

Geralt shoved down the urge to roll his eyes and pushed forward on the road. Vesnice Pastí was just around the next bend. In front of them, specifically in front of the still walking backwards Jaskier, was a hole in the road.

“Ditch.”

“Are you implying I _ditched_ lessons or lectures with those students? Of _course_ I didn’t!”

“Ditch.”

“Repeating it doesn’t.”

“ _Ditch_.”

Jaskier didn’t see the ditch. And by the time Geralt realized that it was a steeper and deeper drop than he thought, it was too late, and the bard was already dropping. It wasn’t a bad fall, not really. No rocks or such and he mostly just pitched backwards, lute and himself kept safe. It could have just been his ass that got bruised.

Could have been.

Instead, a root stuck out from part of the ditch in just the right place and Jaskier dropped to his ass with a strangled gasp and, noticeable only to the Witcher, a shuttering scraping noise followed by an almost popping noise.

Geralt was dropping Roach’s reins in an instant and striding the two steps to where Jaskier had landed and immediately curled forward, left leg pulled up against himself, hands clutching at his ankle, eyes squeezed closed, and voice pain-laced as he mumbled out a steady stream of increasingly creative curses.

As Geralt shuffled slightly closer, the cursing stopped and Jaskier’s head tilted slightly up. Not enough for their eyes to meet, but a motion, nonetheless. The tremble in his voice was forced flat as the bard spoke. “Ditch?”

“Ditch.” Despite his best effort, Geralt could hear the concern threaded in his own voice. He grimaced and instead rumbled out what could be mistaken for a dry chuckle, before grinning wryly and teasing, “I did warn you. Seems this village does have its traps and I’ve finally found a use for you, Bard. Trap detector extraordinaire.”

Jaskier flinched inward – the pain must have spiked – and his voice tightened further, “Ah yes, I suppose you did. Seems like that’s less trap _detection_ and more trap _tester_.” He unfurled a bit, stretching out slowly.

“Perhaps the village would have more use for you then.”

“Trying to get rid of me? You almos- If you’re going to stand there with your famous Witcher strength and stunning muscles, the least you could do is help me up. I’m uh- I’m _sure_ I’ll be fine to walk. Yes, yes. Just fine.”

“Your ankle is dislocated. I heard it pop out of place.” Jaskier’s already crestfallen expression fell further, pulling further down into miserable. Geralt couldn’t blame him, dislocations _hurt_. He knelt, watching as Jaskier immediately unfurled further, giving Geralt access to his injured leg. No human in their right mind would, without a second thought or a moment of hesitation, let a Witcher reach towards an injury. And yet, beyond a swallowed scream and an instinctive jerk back, the bard didn’t even move away when Geralt immediately yanked his boot off. After a moment of gritted breathing, Jaskier met his eyes and grimaced out a grin. “If there’s no healer in Vesnice Pastí, I’ll deal with it. Hopefully there is one.”

“Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” If the tone of Jaskier’s voice didn’t belie his words, his slumped body language would. The bard sighed, tried – and failed – to force cheer into his voice. Geralt hated it when he did that. Hated how, more often than not, it fooled Geralt, even more. “You said we were close, right? Is that human closer? Or Witcher close?”

“Human close. I can hear voices. Should be just around the next curve.”

Jaskier groaned again, face pinched and pulled into a pleasant but pained smile. Something bitter and something burnt soured his scent. Two separate things. Geralt knew one was the pain. The other was a mystery. “Good. I’d hate to be stuck hobbling for too long. Especially not with one shoe.”

“Hobbling?” Geralt had started reaching out to help Jaskier up but he froze in place for a moment, blinking at Jaskier. Did he think-? “Do you think you’re going to _walk_ to the town?”

Face completely earnest, Jaskier looked up at him, “I don’t think the potential makes _road_ -calls, Geralt.”

“Horse. We have a horse.”

“Is a dislocated ankle somehow more fatal than I’ve been led to believe?”

That was…fair. Jaskier had ridden Roach only a few times. Not _only_ when he was severely injured, but Geralt couldn’t fault him for that assumption. And that grated something behind his ribs, something tense and heavy. He breathed, deep and measured. The grating continued but Geralt refused to acknowledge it. Refused to acknowledge the phantom sensations, the vivid memories. He gritted his teeth, reaching out and tugging – yanking – Jaskier to his feet. The bard yelped at the sudden movement but didn’t say anything. “You’re riding Roach. Whine too much and you will be walking.”

“Ok Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice was tired. So much so that the exhaustion almost completely drowned out.

This was more than the usual exhaustion that piled on the bard after an injury. It itched at Geralt’s awareness the same way that the bitter note in Jaskier’s scent did. As he gingerly helped Jaskier onto Roach’s back, he frowned. Maybe a night or two at an inn would help.

*

Vesnice Pastí did in fact have a healer. One who was already at the inn, in fact, with his bag. When they first asked and innkeeper pointed the man out, Geralt mistook him for an errant farmer, or perhaps the blacksmith. But no, as the man sauntered over, the distinct scent that healers all wore wafted over. Next to him, or well, pressed firmly against him, Jaskier straightened up. Geralt didn’t have to look at him to envision the grin that was undoubtably present. The asshole was rumpled from too many nights camping in the woods covered in dirt from his fall and held upright by a Witcher and yet he was still probably the most attractive person to grace this town in a while.

Objectively. Geralt was not biased.

“What can I help you folks with?” The man raised an eyebrow and offered them a jovial smile. Like the innkeeper, there was unease, but no outright fear, in his face as he took in Geralt, eyes raking over the swords and armor, not quite meeting his gold, slitted eyes. He watched as the man’s gaze twitched over to Jaskier, watched his expression shift, grow brighter. “We don’t get bards around here too much. Witchers even less.”

Jaskier, like an idiot, moved to swan forward, only stopping when Geralt tightened his arm around the bard’s waist. He stayed pressed close, warm and sure. Geralt was the only thing keeping Jaskier upright which was why he was holding tight. Certainly. Jaskier didn’t seem bothered, leaning closer and sweeping his other arm out in what potentially could have been an attempted bow, “Well, we figured we would go ahead and surprise the lovely Vesnice Pastí with both!” It was a stupid joke but the healer – and the innkeeper – chuckled warmly. Jaskier straightened, confidence settling over him, “I’m Jaskier the Bard. And my kind and _supportive_ ,” he jokingly patted Geralt’s shoulder at the pun, “friend here is Geralt of Rivia!”

“The White Wolf and his Bard. The hair probably should’ve given it away.”

“In your defense, there are about nine layers of dirt and dust covering much of it! Covers some of that distinctive color.” Jaskier shifted again, twisting to briefly make eye contact the innkeeper who hummed in response, muttering something about ‘baths’ and ‘making sure people could recognize the wolf’. It was…impressive.

The healer chuckled and Geralt’s – and Jaskier’s – attention turned back to him, “My name’s Jaroslav but most just call me Jarek. Jaskier, I’m guessing it’s your leg that needs to be looked at?”

Geralt went to answer, but before he could say anything, Jaskier spoke, “Any chance this discussion could continue at a table? Or better yet, in our room? Feels like it’s time for a scene change. Additionally, as tempting as being alone with two strong, stunning men is, I’m feeling a touch…lightheaded.” Fuck. Jaskier _had_ slowly been leaning more weight onto him. Geralt considered hauling the bard up into his arms but the inn served food, a quieter place for supper compared to the tavern and there were a handful of locals. Picking Jaskier up would have been simple convenience and he didn’t want anyone to misinterpret it.

A charmed grin that Geralt had seen Jaskier create countless times twitched slightly across Jarek’s face but he said nothing, just swept an arm towards the stairs and fell in step behind Geralt and Jaskier.

It didn’t take long to get to their room – edging on cramped, with two narrow beds, a small but sturdy table, and a desk crammed into the coroner by the window: indistinguishable from every other inn room – and Jarek pressed right into business.

“Jaskier, you okay with sitting up on this desk? I’ll still need to kneel, but it’ll be easier.” Geralt couldn’t imagine the plethora of loaded responses Jaskier was ready to reply with so he was surprised when the bard just let out an affirmative hm. Pain and exhaustion was weighing him down more than Geralt had noticed. It was clear, by the slight frown, that Jarek noticed too and, while Geralt hauled Jaskier up onto the desk and settled to the side, at the foot of the second bed. The healer shuffled in behind them and sighed, “Fire won’t get going fast enough but the candles should do _something_.” Dusk was settling and the room was past dim. “What did happen to your ankle?”

“Caught a divot in the road, not too long ago. Dislocated.” Wood was set up in the fireplace, kindling too. Jarek was lighting the candles, gathering them over at the desk so Geralt focused on pulling up a quick _igni_ and catching the wood. Quick enough, the room was brightening up.

Jarek was looking at him when he turned back around, eyebrow raised and an impressed note tinging his voice. “That’s… a convenient trick. You sure it’s dislocated?”

“Heard it.”

“You…heard it?” The note grew, the rare kind of awe that some humans showed. Fascinated with a Witcher’s abilities and respectful of their utility. “You certain?” But still just this side of untrustworthy.

Unsurprisingly and irritatingly, Jaskier pipped up, “Geralt knows his stuff and he’s never been wrong before.”

It was clearly enough for Jarek who shrugged and knelt down, settling into his silence. Geralt shifted. There was nothing for him to do, no _real_ reason to wait around and even a reason to leave since he’d dropped their bags downstairs and left them, but it felt…wrong. The idea of stepping out briefly grated. And that feeling grated in its own right. Irritated, Geralt leaned against the wall, swords clanking awkwardly, and unintentionally watchful gaze remaining on the pair. Jaskier’s eyes pulled open at that, meeting Geralt’s eyes immediately. The bard didn’t quip or wink, only smiled slightly, ripe with a gratefulness that the Witcher couldn’t understand.

“It is dislocated. Will need to relocate it and such, I’m sure at least you, Geralt, know the deal.” Jarek shifted Jaskier’s foot, prompting a rough groan. “Good thing you’ve already got your boot off.”

“Geralt took it oo- _fucking shit_.”

It was exactly what Geralt was expecting and the right choice, but he still had to let the urge to react roll over him and dissipate.

“Guess I should have seen that coming. Healer’s love that trick, don’t you all?”

Jarek chuckled and shrugged without moving, but there’s a scrutinizing glint in his eyes, “Works well, why change?” He flipped open his bag, rummaging in it, “Find yourself hurt a lot?”

“My curiosity tends to move a bit faster than my self-preservation.” Everything about Jaskier was as blithe as believable considering the pain and exhaustion and Geralt immediately knew the bard had picked up on the not quite accusation in Jarek’s voice. The dumbass was constantly looking for a fight.

“And potholes move faster than your feet. Seems like traveling bard isn’t the smartest career path for you.”

The bitterness was back. But Jaskier gave nothing away, just grinned merrily and rolled his eyes. Jarek relaxed at the banter. Movements steady as he worked. “Got a destination you’re heading to? Or just wandering?”

“Heard there may be a job.” Finally more settled, Geralt started unstrapping his swords and armor, “Not a lot of details. You know anything?”

“Yeah. Been some disappearances in the woods, bodies found torn up. Brankàř would know more. Or suppose I should be saying Lord Svoboda. He’d know more. Probably pay more too.” Every step Jarek made was methodical and meticulous. His speaking less so. Geralt would appreciate that genuineness if he cared about that sort of thing.

He dropped his swords and chest piece on one of the beds, considering the information. It wasn’t a lot to go off of, but it was a confirmed contract, probably payment, and a specific person to talk. Geralt had worked with less. Jaskier was clearly less content, “Could be a monster I believe, right Geralt? Not a lot to go off but it is what it is!” The bard hadn’t brushed off any of his exhaustion and pain, but he had pulled on that performer mask.

“There’s a pattern, every ninth nights. Happening for a few months now. Injuries on the bodies are…odd. Not the same on each body, but location, number, depth? Similar enough.”

Jaskier’s bit worked again, it always seemed to. Endeared himself to Jarek even more at the same time. Irritating but effective. “One a night?”

“Yeah. Random person. Travelers, villagers, any age, all that kind of stuff. Just one person in the woods. We’ve tried to keep people out of the woods on those nights but not really an option. Anything else, the Lord’ll know more.” At that, Jarek frowned, going silent as he finished wrapping up the splint. After a moment, he exhaled and rose up. “Done what I can here. Stay off it as much as you can. I’m guess you’ve got pain treatment stuff with you, but I’ll offer anyway.”

“No need. Coin’s in our bags downstairs. I’ll go get it while you collect your supplies.” It wasn’t phrased as a question nor did Geralt really mean it as one, but he still paused, waited for an affirmative nod from Jarek that came quickly. Jaskier’s expression flagged minutely, a flash of displeasure clear even as the bard resolutely looked away from Geralt.

The bitter scent – in all of its increasingly familiar glory – followed him out of the room and down the stairs.

*

Once paid, Jarek didn’t linger. Flashed a smile – sure and glib– at Jaskier and offered a nod to Geralt and then shut the door behind him.

“Lord Svoboda’s estate is close, apparently. Just past the hillock.” Jaskier was on the bed tucked in the corner opposite the door. Geralt’s swords and armor were laid out neatly by the fireplace. A familiar scene. “Jarek said it wasn’t more than a quarter hour on foot. Seems tolerable as far as nobility goes. Greedy and arrogant but that’s the lot.”

“It’s a lot you seem to throw _your lot_ in with pretty often.”

The bard’s expression dimmed, noticeable even as Geralt turned away towards his gear. He wasn’t ignoring it; it just wasn’t his problem. “You’ve been rather irritable today. Even by your standards. And I will accept a ‘hm’, sullen silence, or insult as agreement.”

“H-” Jaskier’s words clicked and Geralt didn’t have to turn around to see the knowing grin on the other man’s face. He didn’t grit his teeth. Didn’t inhale a nose full of bitterness “Innkeeper offered discounted baths. Preferably before it gets too late.”

“I guess I should have included deflecting on my list.”

Geralt dropped the bags next to his armor and followed them to the floor, “Two bath chambers, one at each hall end.” He started to wipe down his gear. “You shouldn’t get the bandaging wet.”

“Think if I unwrap it, Jarek would be willing to rewrap it?” There was a sigh in his voice, even beneath the joviality. A sigh that said that Jaskier, despite what many would expect, wasn’t going to push. Geralt couldn’t say what made him push and what didn’t but the other man seemed to have some system. More often than not, it worked. Now, it grated.

Geralt loosened his grip on the rag, shifted, eyes moving away from the lute case that was next to the door. He’d put it down when he first walked back in, handling it with more care than he had the bags. When he spoke, even he could hear the measured blandness of it, “Why not just invite him to the bath with you? No need for pretending to sneak around.”

The notebook Jaskier had been scribbling wasn’t particularly big or sturdy yet Jaskier still managed to close it with an imposing snap. If Geralt didn’t know better, he would have mistaken it for a snapping quill. “What is _with you_ , today? Honestly! Things have been fine and suddenly you’re in a pissy mood out of nowhere. Want to explain to me what the hell is going on?” In lieu of being able to stand and storm over like Geralt knew the bard wanted to, he heard Jaskier shove himself to the edge of the bed. He liked to imagine he couldn’t feel Jaskier’s infuriated gaze on his back.

“You can’t tell how todays been, you spent it lodged up in your own head. Babbling and plucking on your shitty lute.” The confusing bitterness permeated the room, itched under Geralt’s skin. “Not like it’s any of your business.”

“It’s my damn business if you won’t stop taking it out on me, Geralt. Insults do a shit job of telling me how to _help_.”

“What would _help_ is if you didn’t keep getting yourself _injured_ and slowing me down, _Jaskier_.” He dropped the rag, rose to his feet, refused to turn around. A set of sleep clothes were on the top of his bag and he reached to grab them. Pulled out a set for Jaskier and blindly tossed them to him.

When Geralt turned towards the rest of the room, he didn’t expect to see Jaskier standing up at the edge of the bed, an odd-looking crutch propped up under one arm and an icy expression that set the Witcher on edge. His voice was even icier, “Next time, maybe let your fucking wish play out to completion, Geralt.”

That-

That slammed into Geralt enough to jar him from his anger. On his forearm, the slow to heal cuts itched and in his chest a weighty something settled. He hadn’t said- he hadn’t known that Jaskier knew. But he did. And acted like it _didn’t matter_. For a moment, the Jaskier stood in front of him was bloodstained and pale. He realized the grating hadn’t left and it clutched at his throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A sigh, anger bled out to exhaustion. “Despite what the world thinks, Geralt, I’m not an idiot. I can read between the lines.” Jaskier sighed again, clutched the crutch and his sleeping clothed – it looked deconstructable, pieces slotted together, clever though only usable for light movement – and with more grace than was reasonable, left the room.

Geralt wasn’t frozen in place but he did stand there for a breath, unquestionably present, even as the recent memories shuffled in his head. After a moment, he left as well. In the hall, he found a young man already coming up the stairs with a bucket and an explanation that a request to fill both tubs had already been made. He wouldn’t be able to run into Jaskier then. Instead, he turned his back to the bard’s scent and followed the bucket laden man.

By the time he was finished, their room was dimmed with all the candles snuffed. Jaskier was curled on his side, back to the door, and left leg awkwardly stretched out on top. It would have been better for him to be on his other side, stretch out his leg flat but Geralt could tell he’d already fallen asleep, back stubbornly to the door. And the Witcher.

Suddenly exhausted, Geralt settled himself into bed and closed his eyes. A quiet urge to wish the bard good night rose in him. Before he could question it, he murmured the words out.

There was a moment and Geralt was nearly asleep, but he still heard it clear.

“Sleep well, Geralt. And dream better.”

*

The tavern was mostly empty as Geralt ate a morning meal. A few locals scattered about. One or two travelers. He’d woken later than he would ever admit so those who were in a rush to go had left and those who lingered in bed had yet to get up. Jaskier had still been sleeping, breaths steady and unrestricted. The bard was generally an early enough riser but after last night, Geralt wasn’t surprised he was still sleeping. He’d leave coin for Jaskier to get food if the other man didn’t join him in time.

Geralt shifted, chewing on the mostly not stale bread. He wasn’t actually sure Jaskier could make his way to the tavern. The other man had handled the crutch well last night but that was a short distance in a building. From the inn, it wasn’t _far_ to the tavern, but crutches weren’t easy to use. Shit. He probably should have waited for Jaskier to wake.

“I must request you be gentler with that, my good sir!” The door swung open right after Geralt registered Jaskier’s voice. It wasn’t the just bard who walked through the door though. Six men, dressed in a mix of light armor and garish livery, filed in around him, one even had an arm tucked securely with Jaskier’s free arm, steady grip helping to keep him steady. Or at least, appearing to, Jaskier was rather obviously leaning away from the man, lips pursed. A different man bounced a familiar leather satchel in his hands and Jaskier continued, “That has some rather fragile items within, and I think- Geralt!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt stilled a few steps in front of the group, silently grateful he’d sat close so close to the door. Silently grateful that he’d chosen to pull his armor and swords on before leaving the inn as well. “What is all this?” The men wore that same unease at the base but there was a nervousness on top.

It was _clearly_ a question for Jaskier. Geralt was looking directly at the bard, had addressed him, didn’t know any of these men. But the one in front – tall, narrow, rosy brown hair, puffed up with self-importance – spoke instead, “Lord Brankàř Svoboda has requested the assistance of the Witcher Geralt of Rivia. A creature has taken up residence in the woods and made itself a nuisance.”

There was nothing but congeniality in the man’s voice and movements and Geralt rested his hand on the knife sheathed at his waist. “If it’s just a nuisance, seems over kill to request a Witcher. Especially to request a Witcher so aggressively.” Jaskier quickly met his eyes, a tiny nod showing he got the message. No need to show how much they knew too soon. Just in case.

“Apologies. We did hope meeting in the tavern would-”

“You went to the inn expecting me _not_ to be there?” The men had gone to the inn before coming here. Hadn’t gone there for Geralt, but for Geralt’s potions. And for Jaskier. He looked again at the grip in the bard’s arm, searched over the other man. There were no bruises forming anywhere that he could see, no blood he could smell. Jaskier was as dressed and composed as ever, only the left leg of his trousers rumpled at all. Earlier, the bard’s protests had been about the treatment of Geralt’s potions. He let out a sharp exhale.

Jaskier straightened, the thudding of the crutch catching everyone in the groups’ attention. Geralt had noticed the few other people glance up occasionally before looking away. The bard let the attention fall onto him with enough grace that Geralt could tell he’d meant to do so. “Perhaps people were just keen to get back to Lord Svoboda with a job well done that some action were taken without thinking beforehand. We all make mistakes in our eagerness on occasion but hopefully we figure it out quickly.” There’s a steely blitheness to it. Wielded much better than Lord Svoboda’s man. Geralt could see the grip loosen and shifted, immediately ready for the way Jaskier jump-hobble-swanned away. It was easy to stretch an arm out, let the bard catch it and spin to stand facing the group. He swallowed a smile at the blinked surprised on the other men’s faces, especially when Jaskier slid the reacquired leather satchel over his own shoulder, motions careful to keep the vials from rattling. “Now, can the eagerness wait until I’ve had some food? And, more importantly, Geralt, blink twice if the food isn’t worth waiting.”

*

The food, being warm and mostly not stale, would have been worth it in Geralt’s opinion, but one of the Lord’s men insisted that they could be fed at “the Lord’s welcoming home” and the flash of exhaustion on Jaskier’s face kept Geralt from letting the bard cause any more trouble with the men. He had almost regretted it upon seeing the ostentatious and glitzy carriage they were led to, even Jaskier had raised an eyebrow and caught Geralt’s eye, expression bemused. Ultimately though, it had been much quicker to accept the ride than to make their own way with three working legs between the two of them and one horse.

Jarek was correct and they came to a stop in front of the manor house, intricately carved doors set prominently in front of them. It was a clear display of ego so Geralt slid out of the compartment, making sure to tug his swords from where he’d tucked them against the seats, and immediately turned his back on it, choosing instead to grab Jaskier’s forearm and steady him. The bard’s ridiculous doublet rucked up as he moved, it wouldn’t be hard to just wrap his hand’s around Jaskier’s waist and lift him out of the carriage. He could just-

“Lord Svoboda certainly is making an impression, isn’t he!” The other man bounced as he made it to the ground. His inhale turned sharp for a moment, unable to hide his wince and Geralt gritted his teeth.

“Trying at least. Did you take anything for the pain?”

Jaskier’s weight settled against him as he clicked the crutch sections together. “The impression of trying to make an impression is still an impression, darling!” It was an awkward movement to deposit and situate the other man onto the crutch. Geralt didn’t do much of the work, none of it really. His arm just stayed set around Jaskier’s waist and he had to focus for a moment to release the other man. “And no, I did not have time. Not to repeat a point, but our friends were a tad impatient when they woke me. I had to prioritize pants.”

“And the Continent thanks you for it.” The Lord’s men circled around the carriage, coming up next to them. Geralt could feel the seeming leader of them observing him as he strapped his swords back on. All the amiability didn’t do a lot to cover a shitty insult.

“I’m certain they do! Quite like a beautiful song, works of art are best enjoyed in the intended setting.”

Behind them, one of the other men barely swallowed a surprised laugh. It all went ignored by the one man who squared his shoulders and exhaled sharply, “Come with me. There shall be food in the informal dining room. Lord Svoboda will join us as promptly as he can.” With that, he turned and stiffly made his way towards the doors.

Confident as ever, Jaskier moved to follow before Geralt did, leaving the Witcher to rush a few steps forward. He fell in beside the bard and tracked their surroundings.

Inside the manor house was as showy as the space allowed. Rooms were glitzed over and draped in luxurious fabrics. They walked through four different rooms, the intended use of any of them a mystery to Geralt, before they were herded into a decent sized room with a circular table in the center and two serving boys scurrying around. It was in fact, a step down in grandiosity but Geralt still bristled at the show of wealth. The fresh baked bread, cheeses, and small variety of fruit certainly did not help. Nothing of it was over the top but everything about it chafed as intentionally fake humble, a reasonable amount of high-end food. Showy and over the top but far from threatening.

Some of the tension slipped away and Geralt stepped towards the table. Jaskier followed suit, hobbling his way towards the other side.

“I do hope everything is to your pleasing, gentlemen. Should you require anything else, please inform any of us.” One of the serving boys offered an anxious bow then slipped off to the side. Like most nobility staff, he blended back into unobtrusiveness.

Opposingly, the six still nameless carriage men stood around rigidly, out of place with acting as greeting staff. Geralt picked a chunk of bread off the table and rested partially against the sturdy table. “Where is Lord Svoboda?”

“He must finish up looking over taxation documents. There is much that keeps him busy.” Each time his mouth opened, the Lord’s messenger or whatever grew slimier and slimier.

A contemplative hum came from Jaskier and Geralt glanced to see him looking speculatively around. “Perhaps we should not have rushed up so quickly. I would hate to be so _rude_ as to rush Lord Svoboda in anyway.” Something in Jaskier’s voice ticked at Geralt. He caught the bard’s eyes and noticed the tense look, something between unease and a warning. Pained and still exhausted, Jaskier was clearly feeling jumpy and the Witcher offered a dismissive nod. He pushed a bit further, “Wouldn’t want to knock anything to feeling off kilter.”

“I do apologize for the wait, my esteemed guests!” The door they had entered from bounced open and Lord Svoboda sauntered in. Geralt immediately straightened up, locking onto the other man. Svoboda was of perhaps just taller than Geralt himself but much leaner, rigid in everything too. Something about him resembling a spear, narrow and deadly sharp. Every piece of clothing, while visibly luxurious, was dyed a dense black. The color did little to flatter him.

“Lord Svoboda, may I present to you the Witcher Geralt of Rivia, here to rid your lordship of the creature that has plagued the woods.” Again, the man got slimier.

Irked by the surety, Geralt shifted his weight, let himself remain loose and casual and did not look at Jaskier, who had not been noted at all, “I’m here to hear more about this creature and consider riding it from bothering the _village_.”

“Yes, yes, yes of course!” Like the display, every movement Svoboda was calculatedly understated. He sloped into the room, standing at an even point between Jaskier and Geralt, ahead so they both could see him. His men shifted to loosely cluster around him. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier shift so he was quite clearly turned to focus on the food as opposed to Svoboda. It worked, gaining a brief frown from the man but he carried on anyway, “This really is rather about the villagers. Circumstances often conspire so that they simply cannot avoid being in the woods. Now Miroslav, who is this?”

“I am-”

“He is Jaskier, the White Wolf’s companion and barker, Lord Svoboda.”

Svoboda nodded along with Miroslav’s words, clearly having expected that. He barely even spared the bard a glance, touching on him briefly before his gaze shifted back to Geralt. After a breath, he sloped closer, sloped around, appraising him from various angles. Perhaps there was an attempt to be casual and an attempt to be dauting but Geralt felt more exasperated than uneasy. The lord circled back around, grin sharp and eyes stacked with cold curiosity. “By the gods, you really are a magnificent beast, are you not?”

Geralt breathed back a groan. He’d run into men like this before. Lords generally, minor nobility who wanted to possess more power. Ones who felt the same awe towards Witchers as they did towards wolves and wildcats: awe for a predator they wanted to have submit to them. These men were far more tolerable than hateful mobs but, in all honesty, Geralt hated them almost as much. A snarled response sat heavy in his chest but the Witcher had long since learned that did nothing but encourage men like this.

“I would agree _,”_ Even separated by the table – a move the Witcher had a flick of unease about now – the irritation and disgust curling off Jaskier was clear. Geralt tried to figure out something to say to cut the bard off – they didn’t need the coin per say, but it would be nice to not have to ditch town with Jaskier only able to hobble – but Jaskier, falling back into that voice filled sharpness and politeness and buried threats, continued, voice sharp, pointed, and somehow still pleasant, spoke first, “that _Geralt_ certainly is a magnificent _man_ , Lord Brankàř Svoboda de Vesnice Pastí.”

For the first time, Svoboda’s gaze fully moved to Jaskier. He sized the bard up with the same weighty and barely restrained energy. Jaskier met it solidly, steady and confident despite how openly he was leaning on the crutch. Between the two of them, it was clear that the bard was more commanding. And Svoboda noticed it too. His voice was just the slightest touch strained. “Some creature has taken up residence in our woods. For nearly eight months, one person has disappeared while in them, their body found a few days later, injures mimicking some demented form of surgery. We haven’t been able to ensure that no one enters the woods on these nights, there are too many variables.”

“When is the next night?”

Miroslav spoke, “Tomorrow night.”

“The ‘demented surgery’ injures, have they been the same each time?” Jaskier fished, seeing if things would be hidden. “Or at least similar enough?”

A flash of genuine horror – maybe even sadness – flashed on Svoboda’s face, as he looked down at the table, “It appears the creature is attempting to…remove the organs of a victim. The creature possesses skill or magic or some kind as it appears the victim is kept silent but alive for much of the process.” His expression smoothed out as he stepped back.

Jaskier’s face had paled at that and Geralt understood. That was complex, intentional. No average monster would be capable of that. And no part of Geralt could say _no_ to this job. He shifted back, looked to meet Svoboda’s eyes. “I need to make some more of my supplies so a place to do so would be helpful. More importantly, as many people as possible should stay out of the woods tomorrow. The creature needs to be drawn to a known area.”

“All of that can be done, of course.” Svoboda nodded at Miroslav. And things broke apart.

Geralt had relaxed too much, had followed his own damn intuition and it failed him. Two of the Lord’s men shifted and were at Jaskier’s side, hands gripping his biceps, one knocking the crutch. Jaskier toppled to the side at lack of support. Got caught by the guard with a yelp. Geralt shoved to attention, hand shifting towards his sword.

The Lord didn’t fucking notice apparently, he just spun, waving a hand, “I wasn’t sure if your…companion would be with you but it’s probably for the best. I’m certain you’ve gotten him experienced enough being bait, no?”

“What do you mean?” Geralt snarled, heard the tension echoing out. Miroslav shifted, a hand going to his own weapon. The other armed men did as well. Except the two who continued to still herd Jaskier out, moving as if they assumed Geralt _wasn’t_ reacting to them. “Let Jaskier go.”

“Oh no, Geralt, no need to worry. Nothing will happen to him before the hunt, he’ll still be perfectly usable then. There’s no need for him to be bothering you for hours on end as I’m sure he usually does. I’ve heard he’s quite talkative.” There was no threat in Svoboda’s voice. He sounded like he actually meant what he was saying. Actually thought that. “It took me ages to figure out why such a nuisance would remain with such a resplendent predator like a Witcher but of course bait makes sense. You and this creature, both very clever.”

“Jaskier is _not_ -”

“Is there any chance I could rest some? Geralt and I will need to figure a good place in the woods in which I can play my role.” Jaskier was relaxed, a genuine slant to his face. He was asking to rest so they could plan his being _bait_ for a creature that _methodically disemboweled_ people. Geralt moved to step forward, to shove across the room and grab the bard and leave leave _leave_ -

But blue eyes caught his, expression unwavering. Geralt hadn’t listened to Jaskier and now there were trapped. So now he focused on the weight of his swords and armor, banishing the thorn filled thoughts from his head.

Svoboda responded to Jaskier’s question, sending two men scurrying off to do something. Miroslav was next to Geralt, explaining that he’d show him to his rooms but Geralt barely heard.

All he could do was watch Jaskier hobble through the far set of doors. For the first time in days, the bitter scent was gone.

*

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Geralt saw Jaskier again. He’d spent the hours hovering anxiously in the quarters he’d been led to. The quarters themselves were…unsettling. They were understated and far less gaudy than any other room in the manor house. More akin to a nicer end inn room than anything a noble would have. But it was the small work room that had grated. It was clearly a room for alchemy work. Like alchemy involved in potion making.

A chaos strengthened lock hung unlocked on the door.

None of it had helped his mood, helped the tension that roiled around him. Jaskier had seemed to have a plan but that didn’t help Geralt calm down. The other man was greatly intelligent and Geralt had faith in him. He had less faith in everyone else in this damn manor. Hopefully, the bard’s plan would get them out of here quickly.

At some point, at Geralt’s gruff demand mixed with request, Miroslav had brought by armor maintenance material. He would have preferred to sharp his swords – unnecessary but meditative in the repetitiveness – but it had been politely requested that he allow Svoboda’s swordsmith to ensure they were in solid shape. And none of that had been false. It had actually been asked and they’d actually assumed that he couldn’t tell if his own swords had taken damage. Like he was some sort of idiot. Some sort of-

Geralt shoved his already polished armor to the side. It did him no good to dwell on Svoboda’s opinion of Witchers. None of it was new and Geralt had let himself get so distracted by the familiarity that he hadn’t noticed anything being amiss. Fuck.

He sighed, settled back into the chair only to dart to his feet when he heard footsteps. It wasn’t new, Miroslav had come by during the day. But he focused in, nonetheless. Two sets were steady and in sync, a third familiar, and a fourth-

Unsteady and unpaired. Jaskier on his crutch.

He glanced at the knife on the table. There likely wouldn’t be a chance to use it, but the weight was a comfort. It settled into his grip. Miroslav knocked and swung the door open.

“Geralt!” Jaskier bounded in, somehow mostly unhindered by his escort or by his injured leg. He looked jovial and bright and his eyes pinched just the slightest with tension, his shoulders smoothing with relief at the sight of Geralt. The absolute trust scratched at Geralt’s temples. Jaskier grinned and in Geralt’s memory he snapped about wishing being completed and he chocked on blood on a creek bed. “Lovely to see you! I must say, my quarters are a bit more colorful, perhaps yours has a more splendid vie-Oh!”

Jaskier stumbled, jerking when the two men suddenly stepped away, leaving him partially unsupported. His left leg went down to catch his weight and Geralt pushed through his armor to catch him in time. Breath tickled his chin, the hollow of his throat once they stilled, Jaskier half curled into his chest. Miroslav and the men merely nodded and left, a parting comment about letting the two plan going mostly unheard by Geralt.

He moved Jaskier to his vacated seat, stood only a few steps away, eyes surveying the other man. “Are you okay?” Jaskier looked fine. They hadn’t hurt him this morning at the inn despite having the chance. Svoboda had said no harm would come to Jaskier. But something spine covered still wrapped around Geralt’s throat.

“I’m still down a leg, but no complaints besides that! Brankàř has quite the library and studied at Oxenfurt as well. A few years ahead of me though. Pleasant enough, I don’t often get a chance to discuss literature nowadays.”

“ _Brankàř_?”

“Yes?” Jaskier blinked up at him. “Our host? I’m not… _fond_ of the man in any sense of the word. What with how he spoke of you and the like! Completely ridiculous!”

Geralt felt the urge to pull a pillow from the bed and throw it at the bard. Usually only Lambert could generate the feeling. “He wants to use you as _bait_ , Jaskier. _Expects_ to use you as bait.”

“Oh right! We probably should look over this map! It’s got a decent show of the clearings and such in the woods near the manor.” Producing a scrolled up sheet of paper from somewhere that Geralt hadn’t noticed, Jaskier leaned over the table. He sprawled it out, snagging pieces of armor to hold down the edges. “There’s a big clearing here, but it may be a bit far from the treeline? If so, there’s also these two.” He motioned over the well detailed map, Talking as if this was a decision they needed to make. Geralt tilted his head, listened. No one was nearby to eavesdrop.

“No one is nearby or listening. What is your plan?” Witchers didn’t have tics or tells so Geralt didn’t tap a finger against his medallion.

“-think that, wait what?” Jaskier hadn’t stopped talking until the interruption, “My plan? I don’t really- do I really need to _have_ a plan? Won’t I just need to sit there?”

“How will that help us exactly?”

“It…will…draw out the creature?”

Had he been human, his spine may have made an audible cracking noise with how forcibly he straightened. “Is your plan to fucking _be bait?_ How godsdamn stupid are you bard?”

“What the hell, Geralt?” The bewilderment in Jaskier’s expression had that spine covered thing reaching towards his shoulders. “Are you still upset like you were yesterday? Of course I’m going to be the bait or whatever. It’s not like we have many other options.”

“I _had_ other options until you acted like you had an idea.” Geralt throw the sheathed knife at the bed. “Now we’re stuck in this manor without any real weapons.”

Jaskier leaned away from the map, brows furrowed, “You were going to take this job no matter what Geralt, I don’t see the issue. Besides, in case you didn’t remember, I can’t exactly run through a manor while being chased by armed men. Let alone all the way back to town.” He met Geralt’s glare with his own measured dismissal.

“ _I_ had other options.”

Bitterness twisted slightly through the room. “Options that would involve leaving me here.”

There was a cliff dropping in front of him but Geralt didn’t see it until he was over the edge, “Should’ve taken those options early.”

“Fine, Geralt! Fine!” Jaskier shoved to his feet, eyes bright. Brighter than they’d been in a bit. But instead of the cheerfulness, the teasing, the confidence, Geralt hadn’t noticed was missing, it was hurt. And sadness. “I am well aware that I’m not exactly an easy person to get along with or be around. That has been made very clear to me. But you could at least have given me the dignity of just _asking_ me to leave when you got to whatever breaking point you hit.” He did an awkward shuffle to the side, a half pacing, emotions masking the pain in his ankle. Geralt was frozen, staring. “It’s been almost two weeks, Geralt. I thought I was going to die, I almost did. And then I almost did _again_. _Then_ I thought you died. Except you hadn’t! You were just didn’t seem to care enough to come let _me_ know that.” He waved his hands, “It wasn’t exactly _fun_ waiting for you for _hours_.”

“No one _asked_ you to wait.” Geralt was an idiot. Why was he an idiot. The words were there anyway. “It’s not exactly my problem if you couldn’t deal with anything yourself.” Jaskier looked like he would be near tears in moments and Geralt couldn’t figure out what to do, what to say. Anger was the closest he could get.

Jaskier spun to face him, “What was I supposed to deal with Geralt? I _tried_ to help you with whatever was keeping you awake. Didn’t have a lot of control over anything after that, now did I?” He huffed, looking down. “Look, that’s not- that’s not the point. Suddenly showing how _little_ you can stand being around me isn’t exactly fair to me. You could have just-”

“Just asked you to leave? I spent long enough doing that. Didn’t seem to work!” The anger sat heavy on his tongue, grated against wherever it settled. “ _You_ hung around despite my attempts, like you thought you were useful or something!”

“Geralt-” A flinch back.

“You’re a _bard_. Tavern music and balladry love songs from people who kick you out of bed in the morning are where you should stay. Not bothering people who actually try to do something.” There was a roaring in his ears and he turned away, the anger was easier when he wasn’t looking at the bard, “Can’t help but make every situation worse! It’s a wonder no one’s used a djinn to shut you up before. You’re annoying enough that it’s no surprise the djinn tried to kill you.” The anger snapped but it snapped inwards because he hadn’t really been angry at the bard. But he’d already said… “Wait, I-”

He spun around, Jaskier was staring, face closed off and blank. Geralt moved, he had to say _something_. Something to take it back and tell Jaskier that he was-

The door swung open, “How are things going, gentlemen?” Svoboda strolled in, dressed more casually than he had been before. He swept a hand through his hair before seeming to actually take in the room. “Oh. Well, have things soured a bit?”

“Can work it out.” Geralt glanced at Jaskier. There was nothing readable about him. “Hopefully.”

“Miroslav?” At the call, the other man walked into view. Just past the door, Geralt could hear two other men. The ones who had been ‘helping’ Jaskier get around. “I think some rearranging may be necessary.” A harsh glance passed over both Geralt and Jaskier. “I can’t have my hunter being upset by a mere bard. No matter how lovely the bard may be. Men, if you would?”

Geralt tensed, “No, wait-”

But the men were quicker. They snagged Jaskier in a heartbeat, the façade of gentleness gone now. Instead, it was a clear drag, each grabbing under an armpit and _pulling_. Blue eyes darted towards gold and Geralt lunged forward.

The door closed. The chaos lock clicked.

Alone in the room, Geralt dropped his weight against the door. In the distance, he could still hear the men dragging Jaskier, could hear the occasionally pained curse. The crutch lay on the floor in front of him. Useless. The map was still there too and Geralt swallowed back a snarl.

Svoboda was going to abandon Jaskier in the woods somewhere and Geralt, having been more distracted with shouting at the bard – his bard, his friend – wouldn’t know _where_.

*

Geralt didn’t sleep, didn’t meditate, didn’t rest. He scoured over his armor again, did what he could to check over the few weapons he still did have. He glared hopelessly at a map, having no way of guessing anything. He tried to check his potions only to remember that Jaskier had had them. And it looked like Svoboda would have them.

Mostly he waited. Watched the stairs come out. Watched them fade away as the sun slowly rose. Had it ever risen this slowly before? Geralt waited. And waited.

He half expected Svoboda to come by, demand a meal with him and probe more into Witchers. The man wouldn’t truly keep him here, at least, he wouldn’t trap him _today_. But that didn’t make it less unsettling.

He half expected it until he heard the Lord and Miroslav talking a few rooms away. Svoboda marveling about how Witchers needed so little food.

So, no breaks from the waiting.

It was fine. He settled by the window. Groups of men – villagers and the Lord’s men alike – passed by. Setting up watch on the treeline.

At some point, he settled into a light meditative state. He blinked at the noon sun had settled into late evening. And the lock on his door had clicked open.

Geralt was up in a heartbeat, armor strapped on much earlier in the evening. He stalked forward to meet Miroslav opening the door. The man jumped but said nothing, merely turned and motioned for the Witcher to follow. He did, paying no attention to anything on the brief, silent walk besides the sound of Svoboda chatting freely.

“Ah hello, Geralt!” Svoboda grinned brightly when the walked into the front hall. The man waved cheerily as if he wasn’t jumping from incomprehensible villainy to benign greed at the drop of a hat. “How wonderful to see you! And so determined! I do wish I could accompany you!”

“Where is Jaskier?”

Opposite him, Geralt saw the two familiar men flinch. The leather of his gloves groaned as he tightened his fists. Svoboda waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, he’s out in the woods already! One of those clearings, I can’t remember which one.” His cheeriness lowered slightly, “He was mostly fine last I saw, a touch roughed up. But I _did_ ask him to not upset you last night and I had to stick to my-”

Anything else that was said was lost on Geralt. A guard had walked out with a familiar set of swords and potions and with night more or less fallen, Geralt didn’t care to waste time with anything else. Not even this poor excuse for a man.

He bolted, grabbing his things, and slamming out the door, headless to the startled shouts. Practice and familiarity meant that he could strap his swords on as he moved, but his potions were another thing. He couldn’t juggle everything, didn’t have time. It was dark. It was night. He didn’t know where Jaskier was.

Geralt hit the treeline and slowed for a moment to tuck the satchel in a hollow. He could come back for them if the fight needed it. He could come back but he wouldn’t without Jaskier.

Fuck. Jaskier.

He carried on at a slower pace. The creature, monster, whatever was the problem. The big problem. Whether or not he was with Geralt, Jaskier was in danger as long as it was alive. Finding it first would handle that. Unless it went after Jaskier first. Unless it already _had_ gone after Jaskier. Unless it was too late. Unless he was too late. Unless the last words he’d say to Jaskier were sympathizing with something that had tried to kill the bard. Gods.

None of this was helping. He had a job to do. It was only just dark, and whatever the creature…did, it would take some time. If he focused on finding the creature, he could do this.

Only he’d already made too much noise.

Whatever it was, it was _quiet_. No breath or footsteps, it just slammed into Geralt from behind, sending the Witcher sprawling.

Immediately he was on his feet, whipping to the threat. It was humanoid, recognizable limbs and such. Rosy pink skin stretched awkwardly over harsh bone juts and lumpy joints. Grayed out eyes, stretched and mocking grin. And- and- Geralt glanced briefly at its torso. Clean rosy skin, white bones. Empty hole. Geralt grimaced.

Geralt would guess some horribly cursed human. Trying to…replace its own organs. Would need the victim alive for that. He shifted. The chaos glanced off his skin, vibrated his medallion. It probably relied on that to subdue victims. Shouldn’t be-

The creature moved forward. Its bony fingers dripped with blood. Stunningly red blood. No, the blood started further up, up it’s forearms. Like it had plunged inside of something. Something fresh. The blood dripped. Dripped. Dripped.

No one else was nearby. The thing wanted organs. _Human_ organs. Geralt had his. He stared. Whose blood-

It was a cliché even Geralt knew of. But that didn’t make it less real. A teal doublet was shredded and stuck around one leg. Blood dripped onto it. Off the creature’s fingers.

Blood dripped.

Geralt couldn’t breathe. His thoughts dropped away, poured out of his head, dripping like-

He couldn’t get an angry shout out if he wanted to, couldn’t make a noise. Just lunged across the space, pulling up short to twist and swing.

The thing was quick, slid away. The blade caught below its ribs. The Witcher let the motion carry him forwards. Ducked under a wild swing.

Fighting was familiar, easy to follow into the motions and movements. Easy to shove his brain into the actions. Ignoring the dripping. Dripping.

Dripping.

A wild swing caught him in the moment, snagging deep into his chest piece. His mistake but his advantage. The creature pulled. Surprised to find its hand stuck, claws too deep in. The Witcher twisted, tugged through the limb at the elbow. The creature fell back. He pressed forward, swung again. A decapitation was usually a sure-fire kill. There was resistance and then no resistance. Decapitation remained effective.

Geralt stumbled back from the fight. The creature’s body was crumpled but its leg stood out, stretched out. Shredded doublet limp and stained. He couldn’t help the shaky inhale. The blood pulled in too. The scent of it heavy, driving over even the odor of the creature. Heavy and fresh and _not human_.

Animal mutilations. Neither he nor Jaskier had asked. Hadn’t dug too deep in all honesty. _Not Jaskier’s blood_.

But it still had Jaskier’s doublet. And Svoboda’s guards had still roughed the other man up. His heart hammered. He spun.

The creature’s hand, still embedded in the leather, bounced. He should pull it out, it couldn’t be too hard. But Geralt wasn’t thinking, was already moving. The straps tugged out and he tossed it to the side, racing ahead.

A creek was audible to his left and he tried to think back to the map. The three clearings were places to start. Fuck he had to find the right one.

“JASKIER!” The creature was gone, stealth wasn’t his concern anymore. Jaskier was. Jaskier _had_ been. Had been for years and yet the closest the bard had come to death was because of _Geralt’s_ words. Careless words. Careless words and then leaving the bard alone and shaken for hours. He could’ve just taken one moment to check on him. And now. More careless words.

He pressed on, shouting more and more. Fuck. He couldn’t find the other man. Couldn’t stand not finding the bard. Wanted him at his side. Now. Always. A root caught his foot, sending the fully trained _Witcher_ sprawling. Leaves scattered and Geralt scrambled up. Eyes pinched closed, he breathed out. “Please Jaskier. _Please_.”

“-ralt!”

That was-

“Geralt!”

Jaskier’s voice was coming from a bit behind, to the right. Geralt could have run right past him. He spun and ran.

The clearing wasn’t large. Jaskier was just across from Geralt, a few feet away. Facing the other way. Geralt dropped his sword, his breath dropping out too.

Jaskier spun around at the sound, face frantic. Blood glistened on his temple; he was leaning heavily on a tree. A quick glance showed that his splint was jostled, heavily out of place and the bandages stained with dirt. He wasn’t wearing a doublet and no blood stained his chemise. But that didn’t mean- he could still be- The bard lurched forward, “Gods! Geralt! Thank fuck.” His steps wobbled but he pressed on. Geralt couldn’t breathe, frozen in place. The blood dripping. “Did you fight the- are you hurt? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Where Jaskier’s voice was paced quick and lilted high, energy, worry, fear, panic thrumming though it. Even Geralt could hear his own voice was more dead than usual. As frozen in place as he was. “I’m fine. Are you-did you- did they hurt you?”

“Fuck, who cares about that? About me?” He knew Jaskier meant that flippantly, meant it specifically in regard to this moment but Geralt couldn’t breathe. He remembered Jaskier’s hurt expression after Geralt let him fall, all the times Jaskier told him the same thing again because Geralt didn’t listen the first time, remembered the way his body had been curled in on itself as he waited for Geralt outside the collapsed house. Waited for Geralt after nearly dying and then nearly dying again and thinking that Geralt had died. Remembers the _bitter scent_. Heartbreak. Heartbreak and loneliness.

Jaskier stumbled into reach, injuries and frantic energy pulling away his coordination. He made a move to reach out but Geralt moved first. He watched as Jaskier’s face twitched in shock, expression following wide and open as Geralt reached up, both hands cupping Jaskier’s face. The Bard’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I do.” Jaskier’s breath stuttered. “Gods, _Jaskier, I do.”_

“Geralt- ?”

“I do. I care. Please- I care. About you. I’m _sorry_.” He held the other man’s face, cradled it as much as he could. Blue eyes stared up into his. Geralt couldn’t look away.

Jaskier stepped closer, brought his body closer. His weight shifted on to his left foot and before he could even finish wincing, Geralt was wrapping an arm around his waist. It was to help support him. Geralt was ready to explain it away, but the bard, his bard lifted up his own hands, one settling on Geralt’s face, the other on his shoulder. “Shhh, no sh. Geralt it’s okay. It’s okay.”

A small smile. The bard hesitated for just a moment. Geralt didn’t know what he was going to do, just knew that he wasn’t going to stop him.

Warm lips pressed against Geralt’s, soft and gentle. An exhale ghosting over them. All his surprise and overwhelming relief couldn’t keep him from pressing back, kissing back. Kissing _Jaskier_.

Humans needed more air than Witcher so Jaskier pulled away first, blissful expression punching a gasp from Geralt. The other man’s eyes fluttered open and he’d never seen Jaskier look more unsure or more content. Had never felt more contentment welling up inside himself.

“You know,” Geralt’s voice lilted low, quiet. No need for it to be loud, the only person who cared about what he said was pressed close, sharing a breath. Jaskier looked up, practically glowing. “if you’re what Kerak has to offer, I’d never leave.”

Jaskier froze, fought an amused grin, “You corny motherfucker. Where did that come from?”

Geralt shrugged. “Never had anyone to be corny for.”

“You’re not getting any less corny, did the creature poison you? Geralt? Hey! Put me down!”

Geralt bit back a smile and kept Jaskier tucked into his arms. It wasn’t a long trek back to the manor house, Jaskier grumbled out directions, only stopping when Geralt deviated to get his abandoned belongings. Jaskier had blinked at them, understanding Geralt’s franticness without saying a word, just tucked his head under the Witcher. Reveling in the closeness.

Right up until Jaskier realized that traps were exactly what they found in the village of traps and Geralt dumped him in the river. Geralt smirked. There were a variety of kinds of closeness.


End file.
